


Smoking philosophy

by 2W_NikiAngel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Confusion, Daydreaming, Drinking & Talking, First Kiss, Friendship, Kissing, M/M, Male Friendship, Not Beta Read, One-Sided Attraction, Pre-Slash, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22954315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2W_NikiAngel/pseuds/2W_NikiAngel
Summary: “He’s beautiful, right?” Combeferre winced. He looked at Grantaire, who was still looking somewhere in the void. Even so, he could see his eyes glitter with something he hadn’t seen before. Confusion? Sadness? Loneliness? He didn’t like the look. He reminded him too much of himself. This is how he looked every time he looked in the mirror and thought of Enjolras.Combeferre suddenly laughed. His gorgeous laugh echoed through the silence. He shook his head, dropped a piece of the cigarette to the ground, stepped on it, and grab another one. “How long?”[Český originální text/Czech original]
Relationships: One-sided Enjolras/Grantaire - Relationship, background - Enjolras/Original Male Character(s), implied-Enjolras/Grantaire/Combeferre, one-sided Enjolras/Combeferre, pre-Grantaire/Combeferre
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Smoking philosophy

**Author's Note:**

> I’m working now on fanfic “A Week in Paris”, but it makes me feel as I didn’t actually writen anything in February. So I sat down yesterday and wrote something that I got idea a week ago. The story was little shorter and ending was differenet at first. But you know - writer think about something and fingers just doesn’t listen to it. I hope you enjoy. I’ll grateful for every reaction!

Enjolras was not one of those who imagined evening fun as staying in a loud music bar, poisoning from alcohol, kissing a man whose name he no longer remember. His evenings revolved around the serious Netflix series, upsetting about the political online debate or working on school seminar works. Therefore, when he suddenly appeared between the doors of Courfeyrac’s house, the younger of them jumped around his neck, almost screaming, “Finally! I thought you would never grow up!”

Enjolras just rolled his eyes over the sentence, walked inside the apartment, and handed Courfeyrac a blue, glass bottle. “I didn't know what to buy, so I took the the first thing that looked good.”

“Vodka is always good,” Courfeyrac said and get to the living room with bottle in his hand. “A precious guest has come!L Enjolras walked into the living room and waved a greeting to all the guests. He didn’t know any of the girls, some of the boys dimly recalling some of Courfeyrac’s instagram photos — most likely his classmates — but in the crowd he saw Combeferre talking to Joly and drinking juice; and Grantaire, who was trying to flirt with a long-haired and beautiful brunette who kept her head back and laughed loudly at his jokes. “Coffee?”

“Vodka with cranberry juice, please.” Courfeyrac opened his mouth in surprise. “What?” Enjolras asked, slightly annoyed.

“You don't drink,” Courfeyrac said in disbelief. “You _never_ drink.”

“We used to have wine together.”

“Yeah, but it was a year and a half ago and it was on New Years party, and you looked like someone pissed in your glass.”

Enjolras laughed gently. “I would like to try something new today.”

“I'm not going to stop you,” Courfeyrac said with sincere enthusiasm. “Then sit down, dance, have something to eat, fuck first boy you like; I would be right back with your order, _sir_.” With that he disappeared into the kitchen - probably to find a clean glass - and Enjolras went to his friends.

“Hi,” Combeferre greeted him in surprise and immediately smiled broadly. “I didn't expect you to come.”

“I decided at the last minute,” Enjolras admitted. “I was having dinner with my parents half an hour ago.”

“Everything’s okay?” Joly asked cautiously. Everyone knew that Enjolras never had an easy relationship with his parents. After making public appearances with his, somewhat more radical, political views, he confessed to his orientation and began working for Dr. Lamarque’s controversial prosecutor; it was even worse. They met time to time, but it always ended in an argument between him and his father and a lot of tears from his mother.

But now Enjolras was smiling. “Good,” he said, almost breathless, putting his hands in his pockets and exhaling deeply. He needed to smile constantly. It hasn’t happened to him for a long time. “Better than I had hoped.”

“So glad to hear that!” Joly said enthusiastically, putting his hand around Enjolras’s shoulders and holding him close. Before the blonde could protest, he gave him a quick kiss on his cheek and looked into his face. “I'm glad you at good terms again.”

“It took longer than I wanted. But I'm glad we solved it.”

“What did they say?” Combeferre asked him curiously, moving a little closer to his best friend.

“Who said what?” Courfeyrac asked curiously as he reached Enjolras with a glass of his ordered drink.

“Parents,” Enjolras said simply. “Leave it for tomorrow though? It’s good news, but I don’t wanna think about it anymore. About anything tonight actually.”

“Perhaps I hear this for the first time in my life and I’m gonna start crying with happiness,” Courfeyrac said dramatically, putting his hand on his chest. “I'm so proud of you, _son_.”

“You want to spoil my mood,” Enjolras said, pretending to be a little angry, and immediately smiled at his friend.

“Wow, it doesn't smell like something for minors,” Came a voice behind Enjolras’s back. Before he could turn around, Grantaire appeared beside his side, looking at his glass with interest. “Sir, do you have alcohol in it? Can I see your ID?”

“Funny, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, sipping from his glass. Alcohol immediately began to burn in his mouth and throat.

“It was a compliment,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras replied with a small smile. “You just… smiled at me?” Grantaire looked at all the friends who were standing around them now. “You saw that too, didn't you?” Enjolras nudged his side gently, and the older of them hissed in pain. “That's insidious, Apollo!” Enjolras told nothing and sipped again.

The evening was more peaceful than he expected. Everyone ate, sipped their drinks, spoke loudly. For once Enjolras felt really relaxed. His whole body was full of heat he couldn’t identify. He felt as if someone had covered him with a soft, warm blanket and comforted him. It was pleasant. He needed to smile constantly. He was sitting alone on the couch, his legs spread apart, the third glass of vodka with juice in one hand. He sipped slowly and looked around. He felt _wonderful_. “Enjoying yourself?” Courfeyrac asked as he sat beside him with a bowl of chips. Enjolras looked at him contentedly and nodded. “I'm really glad you came. I don't know, it's always different with you. Like with a part of my own family. If you know what I mean.” Enjolras just smiled and shook his head again. He and Courfeyrac had known each other for four years. They weren’t friends but almost brothers. Enjolras couldn’t imagine never seeing him again. Courfeyrac was already inhaling that he would say something when dance music came from the speakers and everyone began to dance to the rhythm. “Dance!” Courfeyrac shouted happily.

“Your neighbors will be thrilled.”

“Don't worry, _sweetheart_ , a week before this splendor oarty, I put a paper in their boxes with a warning I would have a party tonight. One night with a little loud music and a few drunk students won’t kill them.” Courfeyrac said casually.

“Hi.” They both looked ahead. A boy of about twenty-three stood before them, with beautiful, thick brown hair, large green eyes. He was tall enough, almost like Combeferre. He was wearing a black short-sleeved shirt that was encircling his muscles; and a V-neck that revealed a piece of his tattoo on his chest. His cheeks were a little pink, maybe from the heat in the room, maybe from alcohol, maybe because of what he was about to say. “I don't think we were introduced.” He looked at Courfeyrac.

“Jesus, shit, you right,” Courfeyrac laughed, pointed at the boy in front of him, and looked at Enjolras. “This is Leo, a neighbor, best friend from high school and a lifesaver. Thank to him I make it to university, he even helped me with entrance exams. When I ran from home three times, it was always him who found me. He helped me get rid of some annoying ex boyfriends a few times. He protects me from the first time i shitted on him in kindergarten.”

“Thank you for reminding me. Always,” Leo said with a smile.

“It's my duty,” Courfeyrac said, pointing to Enjolras. “And this is Enjolras, another lifesaver of my life that made me meet the best people in the world and find that even someone like me can change the world. He loves white color, annoying pop music and he likes scratching his back, but _shh_ , you don't have it from me.”

“Has he always been this annoying?” Enjolras asked with a mild blush on his face - he was really glad Courfeyrac hadn’t mentioned how he _moan_ while someone scratch his back - when he looked at Leo, who just nodded.

“Well, you're terrible friends.”

Leo ignored Courfeyrac and focused on Enjolras. He looked him over again. As soon as he entered the room, he was immediately intrigued. Something about him was incredibly appealing. Not just his look, which almost amazed him, but the aura he had around him. “When Mr.Talkingtoomuch talked about annoying pop music, don’t you want to dance?”

“Me?” Enjolras asked in surprise. Leo just nodded.

“Enjolras don’t da—”

“Sure,” Enjolras said, putting the glass on the table. Courfeyrac opened his mouth in surprise and Enjolras rolled his eyes. “What again?” Enjolras asked, slightly annoyed.

“You don't dance,” Courfeyrac said quietly, as if trying to remind Enjolras of how he actually lived. “Are you going to dance voluntarily?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said as he got up and walked over to Leo. “I'm not very good at it though. In fact, I’m pretty bad. I'm sure I’ll step on your foot.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Many times.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Leo repeated with a smile as he and Enjolras walked a little closer to the center of the room where a few people were dancing.

Courfeyrac waited for nothing. He quickly put down the bowl of chips and hurried over to the remaining members of the Les Ámis. “Guys, guys, guys!” He interrupted their conversation and started swinging his arms around him as if someone had pierced his entire body with an electric current. “Guys, guys, guys!” Courfeyrac jumped a few times, always doing that when he was too excited.

“We can hear you,” Combeferre said, trying to calm him down a little.

“Breathe,” Joly said worriedly, looking at him as if looking for signs of a current heart attack.

“What's going on?” Grantaire asked curiously.

“I just found _the one_ for Enjolras.” The three frowned at him and started looking at each other. Courfeyrac bit his lower lip, struggling not to laugh loudly. He pointed a finger at the middle of the room. Enjolras looked down and tried to repeat the steps Leo had shown him. They both laughed, Leo was constantly looking into Enjolras’ face, Enjolras scratching his hair - he did that when he was nervous. The music was rhythmic but still quite slow. Both were close to each other, but didn’t touch. They said something, Leo shook his head, and Enjolras laughed even more. “My God,” Courfeyrac whispered, covering his mouth with his hand. He squeaked loudly.

“This is perhaps the first time I have seen Enjolras with anyone other than us,” said Joly.

“They look _so good_ together,” Courfeyrac said enthusiastically, his gaze still fixed on the two. “I got it!” He exclaimed enthusiastically, looking at his friends. “I'm going to be a matchmaker!”

“You don’t even have one success and you turn it into business already?” Grantaire laughed, sighing deeply. He was the only one to looking into his glass, which had long been empty. As he gazed at Enjolras, he always lowered his head and cleared his throat. “I need a cigarette,” he whispered rather to himself, pulling a cigarette pack and a lighter out of his pants pocket.

“No smoking!” Courfeyrac cried suddenly, pointing to the door. “Only outside. Dad would be crazy if the couch smelled of cigarettes.”

“And the fact that his son fuck a half of the law university doesn’t bother him?”

“He's rightfully proud of that,” Courfeyrac said, and Grantaire just rolled his eyes. He put a cigarette between his lips and indicated that he was going outside. “As soon as I saw Enjolras, I thought Leo would want to try it.”

"Really?" Combeferre asked cautiously. He looked again at the center of the room. Both Leo and Enjolras were much closer now, looking into each other’s face, whispering something. Enjolras nodded his head and gently danced to the rhyme. “Why?”

“Enjolras is totally his type, at least psychically.” Courfeyrac refilled his glass with gin. He began to lean toward Combeferre, who stopped him. “You had enough already?” He asked, laughing.

“For now,” Combeferre said, still looking at his best friend. He seemed relaxed. Almost happy. He hadn’t seen him relaxed for a long time. “I need some air,” he said suddenly, putting his glass on one of the tables and disappearing before his friends could start asking why he was disappearing so quickly.

“What's wrong with them?” Courfeyrac asked Joly, who just shrugged and they sipped from their glasses again.

As soon as Combeferre came out, a cold wind hit him. Wind was blowing gently, but crawled even under warm clothes. He felt instantly drying his sweat and caressing his red, hot cheeks. He took a deep breath, exhaled loudly. He felt as if someone was sitting on his chest. Suddenly he was breathing badly. He knew he needed a moment to get out of the noise, the heat and the people. Take time to calm his pounding heart. Why was it pounding so fast?

He looked ahead. Grantaire sat on the curb by the road, his back facing him. Occasionally a cloud of thick, gray smoke rose above his figure. Combeferre smiled to himself. He walked over to Grantaire and gently pushed his knee into his head. “Do you have one more? I want too.”

“For friends always,” Grantaire replied with a smile, pulling another cigarette out of the box. Meanwhile, Combeferre sat beside him, took a lit cigarette, thanked him softly. Nicotine smoke immediately flooded his lungs. His heart began to calm down. “I didn't know you were smoking.”

“Occasionally,” Combeferre admitted. “It helps me to calm down.”

“Same as me,” Grantaire said with a smile and looked back in front of him. Courfeyrac’s house was at the end of the street in front of the elementary school, a playground and a large park. They both looked somewhere in the darkness of the park. Even at night it was possible to see a fountain. Only now had Combeferre realized he had forgotten his coat inside. He was getting a little cold. He pulled again from his cigarette. It didn't give him enough warmth or comfort he had hoped. Maybe if he drank more—

“He’s beautiful, right?” Combeferre winced. He looked at Grantaire, who was still looking somewhere in the void. Even so, he could see his eyes glitter with something he hadn’t seen before. Confusion? Sadness? Loneliness? He didn’t like the look. He reminded him too much of himself. This is how he looked every time he looked in the mirror and thought of Enjolras.

Combeferre suddenly laughed. His gorgeous laugh echoed through the silence. He shook his head, dropped a piece of the cigarette to the ground, stepped on it, and grabbed another one. “How long?” Grantaire put another cigarette in his hand, but didn’t answer. He just sighed out loud and looked ahead again. He was silent, but Combeferre understood him.

No one said anything for a long time. They focused on cigarettes and their own thoughts. Music came from inside the house to their ears. Grantaire shuddered when he heard the first tones of slow dance. “Are you cold, too?” Combeferre asked worriedly.

“No,” Grantaire said truthfully, and finally looked at Combeferre. “Do you think they’re still dancing?”

“Maybe,” Combeferre said quietly, studying Grantaire for a moment. He swallowed dry. Grantaire ran his tongue over his lips and bit his lower lip. He seemed to be thinking about something. He took a few breaths, opened his mouth as if to say something, but got nothing out of himself. “The music is quite... slow.”

“Have you ever seen him dance?”

“Not like that. But yes.”

“With someone else?”

Combeferre just nodded. “In high school quarter when we were on Courfeyrac’s 18ths birthday party. He danced there with the bartender. He stepped on her foots constantly. She wasn’t impressed.” Both laughed, Combeferre at the memory, Grantaire at the thought. “Then at the ball. Our school celebrated 100th anniversary. He danced there with a former classmate and one of our classmates. And both were weird.” Grantaire raised an eyebrow, and Combeferre added, “She weighs about a 330 pounds and is so tiny, that they looked incredibly comical. And he, well, suppose he doesn’t have the best reputation. He was such a good kid, but he still clings to his special weird gang. Suppose he… was a little bolder in… touches.” Combeferre swallowed dry. How is it that he once again felt he couldn’t breathe?

“Leo looks like a good guy,” Grantaire said suddenly. “He didn’t try anything.”

“Yes, he looks like a good guy,” Combeferre agreed.

“I hate him,” Grantaire whispered.

“Me too,” Combeferre said after a moment.

They both smoked and had another cigarette. “I never smoked so many cigarettes at once,” Combeferre said, frowning a little. Nicotine tickled his throat, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

“My record is fifteen,” Grantaire said almost proudly. “After one demonstration.”

“The October one on Rue de Bac?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

Enjolras was seriously injured that time. The demonstration was absolutely calm. You could say it was strangely _pleasant._ Suddenly there was a blow, as if someone was shooting. No one knew what was happening. Smelly, pungent smoke flooded the square. There was panic. Some people were running, some were coughing, some laid on the ground. It was hard to saw anything, people were screaming. Everyone tried to escape the smoke as far as possible. When they all met in Musain within an hour - Joly could hardly see how he constantly sneezed and cried; Marius couldn’t speak; Courfeyrac cursed; Jehan kept looking out the window as if he was waiting for someone; Feuilly treated Bahorel’s wounded hand; Combeferre was constantly shaking the inhaler, and Grantaire was silent for once - the bartender asked them, “ _Where’s the bald one and blond guy_?” It didn’t take long for Bossuet to call them. They all arrived at the nearest hospital, where the nurse was bandaging his broken arm. “Enjolras is having a surgery, it’s bad,” he said, tearful, not knowing whether he was due to smoke or what he saw. When he described what had happened to the them, everyone was quietly silent. Enjolras was in a coma for a week, with his head bandaged, his right leg broken, bruises all over his chest and legs, and a monocle.

“Didn't this song sound on Jehan’s recitation of amateur poetry?” Combeferre asked.

“See, I thought I was familiar,” Grantaire agreed.

“Sounds nice.”

“Very nice.”

Every month, Jehan hosted performances for amateur artists in Corinth. From singers to poets and writers. He invited all of the Les Ámis and no one was able to tell him no. _“This poem is dedicated to this wonderful creature who sits in the corner and act like he doesn’t know me,”_ he said, pointing to Enjolras, who was smiling. _“This is for you, my little thank for your help.”_ Nobody knew what the _little help_ was. But according to the glow in Jehan’s eyes, it was something important. In his case, it could have been that he had baked the cakes he liked. Curiosity almost bit them, but neither had ever said what it was all about. After he had finished reading the poem, he stepped down from the stage and hugged Enjolras firmly. They said something quietly. That day Enjolras wore a tailor-made suit. All blue, with silver and brown accessories. His hair was for the first time combed and tamed with gel. He looked young, proud, _beautiful_.

“Jehan is a lucky man,” Grantaire said quietly.

“He is.”

“He never hug like this.”

“True.” Combeferre looked at Grantaire and added quietly, “Except for Odette, Claire, Marcel and Bruno.”

“Friends from high school?”

“Kindergarten.”

“Good relationships?”

“The best.”

“I hate them.”

“Me too.”

Grantaire frowned a little. Combeferre’s lips were tight, he was frowning, tapping his foot. “Is there anyone you hate more?”

“Eric.”

“King of dicks.”

Eric was Enjolras’ ex boyfriend. He was handsome, tall, sharp, tattooed, and a little bastard. Enjolras always had a desire to save someone. He thought that his love could help or even _safe_ someone from their miserable life. But he never realized that trying from only one side doesn't count. Enjolras didn’t talked about their relationship, so everyone thought he was happy. Only half a year later in the relationship, he suddenly appeared between the doors of Combeferre’s apartment - soaked from rain, holding a backpack, breathing deeply, his eyes red, his lips curving. “Can I sleep here tonight?” He asked him in a strangled voice. Combeferre didn’t refused. He gave him clean clothes, prepared diner, talked to him to the morning and treated his wound above his eye, which he didn’t want to explain.

“He’s lucky to have you,” Grantaire said suddenly.

Combeferre shook his head. “He’s lucky to have _you_.”

Combeferre didn’t wanted to speak behind his back, but it seemed right for others to know why Enjolras suddenly decided not to go to the meetings. He wanted to wait for the wound on his head to heal. He didn't wanted to explain what happened. He didn't wanted to overwhelm anyone with his problems. But Combeferre wanted to tell them everything. He wanted others to hate Eric as much as he did. Grantaire had left strangely early. The next day Eric appeared at Combeferre's door, his eyebrows torn, monocle on his right eye, with a bruised hand. He apologized, almost knelt on the ground to before Enjolras, forgive him. Despite all this, Enjolras smiled at him and forgave him. He was such a good man. But they never saw Eric again.

“They hugged each other.”

“Certainly.”

“Eric loved music.”

“Yes.”

“They also danced together.”

“Probably.”

“Damn,” Combeferre whispered, lighting another cigarette. “I'm sure I'm going to be sick.”

“But that's not a punishment.”

Combeferre smiled. “It’s not.”

Enjolras was perhaps not the best at expressing his emotions, unable to understand the meaning of every spark in his eye, sometimes struggling to tell if anyone was joking or being serious; but he _tried_. And everyone appreciated it. Whenever someone was feeling bad, they got sick or overworked themself; he tried to give them some support. Mostly, he wrote long messages about how the need to care about themselves, eat good foods and sleep well and let him know if they were worse so he could help them with anything. When Combeferre was lying in the hospital with pneumonia, Enjolras came to him every day. He brought him strawberries, oranges and apples, saying, _“Vitamins are important.”_ After three weeks, he was sick of all of the fruits, but he couldn't tell him no. When Grantaire was beaten outside the bar for saving strange girl from rape, he couldn’t move for nearly two weeks. He had bruises on his body, wrists were wounded, and he could hardly see to his right eye through the monocle. Enjolras went to him every day with fresh groceries and when Grantaire fell asleep from pain, he wiped the dust, swept the floor and put his favorite blueberry biscuits on the kitchen counter with a note saying, _“Soon it will be better.”_

“Caring is a good quality.”

“It certainly is.”

“We all are caring,” Grantaire said, remembering all of the Les Ámis boys. They were really like a family to each other.

“We are,” Combeferre said, remembering the same thing as Grantaire.

“How caring is he in relationships?”

“Eric could tell.”

“Motherfucker.”

“Asshole.”

They both put new cigarette between their lips again. “He lived with you for a while.” Grantaire leaned his elbows on his bent knees and looked with interest at the spectacled man beside him. They lived together for the first year in college. “Caring?”

“Very,” Combeferre smiled. “For all his friends.”

“All of them.”

“In a relationship, too.” Combeferre sat as Grantaire did. “Eric didn't deserve it, but the truth is I saw them together several times. I saw what Enjolras was doing for him. How he treated him. How he spoke to him. His cheeks were always so delighted, as he had now when he drank so much alcohol.”

“He will end up in the funny state like in Barcelona.”

“Oh, Barcelona,” Combeferre laughed.

It was the first trip of all of the Les Ámis. They all had a hard time - some were arguing with their parents, some were kicked out of school, some were unable to find a job and were starting to have debts. Everyone was experiencing a crisis at the time. They decided to go abroad for a week. They got in four cars, turned on Bluetooth so everyone in the car could hear each other, and drove overnight. It was fast, hasty, unplanned. But still the best they could do. Within a week, their bond had become so strong that they couldn’t imagine life without the others. The last day they tried to confirm their friendship with a good dose of alcohol at the dance club. Enjolras didn’t dance, but had enough time to drink at the bar, where around forty-years-old club owner wanted to seduced him. Around two in the morning, Enjolras, accompanied by Joly, had to leave because he threw up on bartender. On the way he even fainted. When they went to hotel the next day, Enjolras had to stay at the hotel two more days. Joly and Bossuet then offered to stay with him and watch out for him. Everyone had almost forgotten and actually remembered only the good memories, but whenever they said _Barcelona_ , Enjolras’s cheeks suddenly flushed with a strong pink color. Even after nearly five years after, he was still ashamed.

“I want to come back.”

“I miss those sunsets.”

“It's delicious food for me, remember how we ate those buns in the square?”

Neither remembered where they were. They just walked down the aisles, going to all the little shops they saw and trying to discover the mysteries of Spanish culture. Enjolras had joined Combeferre, Grantaire and Feuilly at the time. He bought them buns along the way, each with a different flavor to taste. It was crazy hot, so they decided to hide in the shade by the fountain. Enjolras was silent all the time, eating and smiling. Sweat glittered on his forehead, and his shirt floated freely in the hot breeze. None of them could look away.

“Or how we were at the karaoke bar?”

It was Bahorel’s idea. He loved to sing, even at the least convenient moments. He didn’t have to persuade anyone, they were all in such a good mood that they didn’t care what they were going to do together. Enjolras decided to sing just before their reservation ended. Everyone was already a little drunk, and so when Enjolras stepped out onto the small podium, the room suddenly darkened; nobody noticed much. Only they perceived his soft, shy and a little false voice.

“What was that song? I don't remember.”

“Something about the revolution?”

“Certainly.”

“He loves it.”

“He loves.”

“How does he love?”

Enjolras gave everything he could. He never did anything in half. It didn’t matter if it was speeches at demonstrations, volunteering in NGOs, writing papers for school; or reading a book, baking meat pies, wrapping gifts for friends for birthdays. Everything was sometimes scary perfect. And that's exactly what he had with everything he cared about. All members of Les Ámis were his highest priority. 

“It's not enough,” Grantaire said suddenly. Combeferre looked at him and Grantaire felt his cheeks turn red. He knew he couldn’t want more. “It's not enough for me.”

“Not to me either,” Combeferre said, approaching the brunette again. “I'd like more.”

“God, me too,” Grantaire whispered, closing his eyes tightly. “Have you ever imagined what it's like to be with him?”

“Several times.” Combeferre leaned his head against Grantaire’s shoulder and sighed. “And you?”

“Several times,” he repeated his reply, throwing his cigarette away. He didn’t light another.

“I'd like to go to the amusement park with him,” Combeferre said suddenly, his eyes trying to find a fountain in the park in the dark. He needed something he could focus on. His head was starting to spin. He had no idea whether from cigarettes or imagination. “He loves fast rides. I do not like them, but for him I would overcome myself. First we would go to one of the smaller, slower ones. Such that I could have something to eat with him and go to a haunted house. Then I want to go on the biggest, highest and fastest ride. So I can hug him tight when I yell and worry that we won’t get come out alive from it. Then we would buy some embarrassing animal ears like they had at Disneyland. And then the shooting range. Can you imagine that I would shoot him the big plush bear? He would have to carry it all along.”

“Cute,” Grantaire said with a smile.

“Then we would go on the Ferris wheel, it would be getting dark. When we would be at the very top, the lamps would come on. His hair would shine. Do you know _how much_ they _shine_?”

“As if they were sprinkled with gold.”

“And those eyes would shine too, maybe even more beautifully. And he would smile. His beautiful smile. He has dimples on his cheeks. He would look at me, say nothing, just lean over and embrace me. By his firm embrace, when you feel he will never pull away from you again. Then we would have to let me go, but he would take my hand. He would hold me all the way to my apartment. He was silent and still holding my hand. Holding.”

“Beautiful,” Grantaire said truthfully, brushing his head against Combeferre’s fine, brown hair.

“Wonderful,” Combeferre said, closing his eyes and waiting for what the brunette said.

Grantaire took a deep breath. “The museum is not exactly a fun trip, but to go there with a man who know a tons of shits about art? That’s something else. I would take him to the Louvre, because I know he knows everything about it and will try to play the smart one. So I would totally overwhelm him with my arguments and knowledge. He would be all red, wrinkling his nose and frowning.”

“He would be angry.”

“When we go out, he would want to go home. But I would persuade him to come with me. We’d go to my studio. I never tell anyone about it. It’s my personal world where I go to hide myself pretty often. Do you know what it looks like there? On the walls, on a chair, on a rack, everywhere; are Enjolras portraits. My studies of his face and body. ”

“The murderer's lair.”

“Just a room of one of his fan. He would admire me. Because he had no idea that I could draw that good. He would be mute from shock. And I would start with my monologue. About how I feel about him, how long, what he means to me, how much he changed my life. He wouldn’t know what to say, so we’d be standing there looking at each other, silent. He would be red again, but this time from nervousness.”

Combeferre smoked a cigarette, slipped it under the sole of his shoe, and opened his eyes. “And then?”

“Same as you.”

Combeferre pulled away from Grantaire, looked into his face, studied him with interest. “The same?”

“Little different, but still the same.” Combeferre gently touched the back of Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire didn’t even flinch. He just blinked, still looking at Combeferre’s face, which was starting to turn red. “How much did you drink?” He asked cautiously.

“A few glass with gin and tonic, but I don’t feel it anymore. You know I can bear a lot.”

“Like me.” Their fingers intertwined. Both of them had sweaty palms. “Maybe more.”

“You think?”

“You are closer, it must be harder for you.”

“But at least I can be with him, talk with him, hug him. You can’t do any of this. I have it easier.” Sadness glowed in Grantaire’s eyes. Combeferre squeezed his hand even more. “You’re strong.”

“You too.”

Combeferre leaned over to Grantaire.

“More than me.”

“Same as you.”

Grantaire leaned over to Combeferre.

“You're not weak.”

“Neither are you.”

They kissed. Grantaire’s lips were dry and narrower; The Combeferre were cold and fuller. Combeferre was freshly shaved and smelled of menthol. Grantaire’s face had a weekly, itchy stubble and smelled of burnt wood. They kissed each other, pulled away, closed their eyes, and kissed again. They both opened their mouths. They began to kiss, their tongues began to recognize each other. They both tasted like cigarettes and alcohol. They didn’t find the true taste of another. They both imagined the taste of someone else. Combeferre tasted cinnamon, apples, and twitched his fingers in long, curly, blond hair; Grantaire tasted strawberries, vanilla, and crushed his fingers in a fine, white hand that hadn’t memories of manual work.

“How long?” Combeferre asked as he pulled away from brunette to take a breath.

“Too long,” Grantaire replied, kissing him again. Their tongues began to play together, spinning around, competing for dominance. Grantaire put his right hand on his side and pulled him closer. Combeferre was shaking. He had no idea whether from the cold or excitement.

“Boys?” Grantaire asked this time as he pulled away from him and kissed his nose.

“Two,” Combeferre said, feeling a flush in his cheeks. He was ashamed of what he was doing. To looking for boy who looks exactly like Enjolras. “I couldn't do it. You?” 

“Fifteen. And I did everything with them.” He kissed his lips again, but immediately pulled away. He released their interconnected fingers and took Combeferre’s cheeks in his hands. He looked deep into his eyes and smiled. “Damn,” he whispered, leaning on his forehead. “I'm sad, high, and horny.”

Combeferre just laughed at his openness. “We are on the same boat.”

Grantaire looked into his eyes and bit his lip. “All three?”

“All three.”

“You have the same eyes. The same shade of blue, the same size. Only he have a longer lashes.”

Combeferre smiled at him. “You have the same hair. Equally dense, equally curly. Just his are blond.”

“You have the same figure. Slim, elaborated. You have muscles on your arms. You’re just a lot taller than him.”

“You have the same aura of dominance around you. The desire to lead someone. Only yours is more digestible.”

Grantaire stood up and held out his hand. “Come on, otherwise you’ll freeze.” Combeferre took his hand and stood up. Grantaire, however, didn’t release him, fingers entwined with his again and smiled at him. “My studio is about a 20-minute walk away.”

“What?” Combeferre asked with a smile, squeezing his hand harder.

“I have so many interesting drawings there, you will certainly like them. Especially those on the ceiling. All you have to do is lie down on my gorgeous, soft, red drape next my stand.”

“Will I have to lie down?”

“It will be the best.”

“Is that a good idea?” Combeferre asked, shivering again.

“You're the smart one here, and if you don't know, I don’t either.” With that he took a step backwards and began to pull Combeferre toward the end of the street. “But if you don’t know, it’s better to try.”

“Will it be enough?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will _I_ be enough?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

“Then we have to do it.”

“We have to do it,” Grantaire agreed. “I have some good tea from Japan in my studio that my sister brought me. You must taste it.”

“That's what I call an invitation.”

They both laughed. With that they made their way to the end of the street. They were silent. They touched their shoulders, holding hands, occasionally brushing their hairs. Sometimes they stopped just to kiss. Just briefly, almost innocently. They assured each other that it was right. In a moment they reached the end of the street and disappeared around the corner.

All they had to do was turn around and they could see that someone had stood behind them all the time. He gulped loudly. His eyes stared at the corner of the street as if expecting both to return and shout, “ _We were kidding!”_ , but no one came back. The darkness was thicker, the wind a little stronger. He felt himself fidgeting under the onslaught of emotion, alcohol, air, and his heart.

“Enjolras?” Enjolras twitched and turned quickly. Leo stood in the doorway, smiling at him. “Why are you standing there?”

“I… I… er…” _What he was doing?_ “I just…” He looked at his hand. He held Combeferre’s jacket convulsively. When he noticed that his best friend had gone without it, he apologized to Leo for the dance, took it, and ran out. Combeferre suffered from colds and Enjolras was worried when he forgot to take it. He dressed quickly and went out. He saw him sitting with Grantaire on the curb. They spoke quietly, but the cold wind brought their words to his ears. It whispered to him what they were talking. He heard everything. His heart pounded faster with each word. His mouth was drier with every sentence. His hands trembled more with each movement of their body. When he saw them kiss, he forgot why he stood outside.

It was enough for them to turn around and everything could be different.

“Have they left?” Leo asked in surprise, seeing no one outside.

“Yes,” Enjolras said quietly, his gaze still fixed on Combeferre’s blue jacket. They picket it together. A year ago. Enjolras have the same one, only in yellow. He wore it when he is in a bad mood. “They’re already gone.” His mouth was unfamiliar dry. Where was Grantaire, who kept telling him that he had to drink enough water not to faint? He always cared about him so much.

“So, are you coming back?” Leo asked hopefully. Enjolras finally stopped hypnotizing his friend’s jacket and looked at Leo. He was smiling at him, leaning on the door, and perhaps hoping to return to their unfinished dance.

“I need to go,” he said suddenly, trying to smile at him. “The alcohol… doesn’t suit me.”

“Would you rather escort?” Leo was reaching for his jacket, but Enjolras stopped him.

“No, that's all right. I just need to take a little walk.” He tossed Combeferre’s jacket over his shoulder. “And I don't want you to see me vomit. You’d lose your illusions about my perfection right away.”

Leo laughed and tossed his thick hair. “I don’t think so. You can’t change my mind about you.” He sighed loudly. “A good, happy journey to you then. If you ever want anything… I gave you the number.”

“I got him, don't worry.” The paper with his phone number burned in his pants pocket.

“All right,” Leo said. It was obvious he didn’t want to say goodbye. “So - thank for the dance.”

“It'll be better next time, I promise.”

Hope glittered in Leo’s eyes. “Next time?”

“I promise,” Enjolras said again, and Leo smiled broadly at him. “Good night, Leo.”

“Good night, Enjolras.”

Leo closed the door and Enjolras alone again. He stood there for a moment, trying to exhale the heavy feeling on his chest. He felt like something was choking him. He walked to the road and looked in the direction where his friends leaves. He had no idea why he wanted to go in the same direction. He had no idea why he wanted to go to them. He had no idea why he wanted to talk to them. He had no idea why he imagined—

Enjolras shook his head. He could still hear their voices. He heard what they were talking about. “Damn…” he whispered, closing his eyes and brushing his restless hair with his palms. “Damn,” he whispered again, biting his lip. He felt tears pouring into his eyes. Why? Why did he feel so helpless? “The alcohol,” he told himself, taking a deep breath. He turned quickly and walked toward the bus stop. The opposite side. The farther he was from Courfeyra’s house, the farther he was from Grantaire and Combeferre; the more he began to tremble, the more tears he had in his eyes, the more his voice in his head shouted at him: _Don't go, don't go, don't go!_

But Enjolras wasn't listening to himself.

He didn’t slept that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Little reminder that I still have an open project, where I can write a Les Mis fanfic for you. You can find all the information on [Birthday fanfictions project](https://2wnikiangel.tumblr.com/post/190645365922/birthday-fanfictions-project).


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